


I'm fine?

by RedBlazer



Series: Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Doctors & Physicians, Grey's Anatomy Reference, Hospitals, M/M, Surgeons, heart surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m fine.” Stiles answers firmly. Years of guidance counselors and well-meaning RAs have trained him in the art of deceiving people into making them think he’s a totally normal person.</p><p>The I’m fine is typically the answer everyone gives when things are totally not fine.</p><p>“If you say so.” Derek answers. And Stiles is incredibly happy that Derek’s giving him this out.</p><p>If they keep talking in these short, half formed sentences, Stiles is going to die from mortification. So instead of answering, he just shrugs on his lab coat and goes to find his roomie so that he can get some sleep in his actual bed for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, it would probably be a good idea to read the rest of the series before this. Totally your call though.

There is a gross part of Stiles that’s always just on the edge of his mind. Always lurking there so that in quiet moments it can creep in and just knock him right on his ass.

It wasn’t always there. When he was a kid it wasn’t like there was much to worry about except for the monsters living under his bed and what would happen if his parents found the Brussels sprouts tucked under his napkin.

After his mom died (three floors above him in the hospital, though he doesn’t like to think about that) though, something happened. Maybe it was just his own sick little way of preventing himself from being hurt again by the shock of losing someone, like an alarm that would remind him randomly that everyone he knew could die at any moment.

And not in a serial killer way.

Just in a way that made a tight ball of anxiety blossom in his chest.

It would happen at the most random times. Laying awake in his dorm room he would suddenly worry that at that moment an aneurism in his dad’s head could just rupture and kill him instantly. Or for whatever reason, he would sign off from skyping with Scott and suddenly call him back because the that little voice nagged at him that Scott could be in a terrible accident and Stiles might never speak to him again.

Still, it’s not reassuring to know that there is a part of you that seems like its only purpose is to take the wind out of your sails and leave you panting in a hall closet from anxiety instead of the incredibly hot guy who has spent the last 10 minutes doing this thing with his hand right at the waistline of your scrubs.

What if Derek dies?

Stiles blinks his eyes open in the relative darkness of the room. Meanwhile Derek noses at his throat and both his hand squeeze Stiles’ hips.

Normally anything like that from Derek would probably get some moaning or groping in return. Instead, Stiles’ hands just kind of release their grip on the back of Derek’s shirt and his weight melts into the wall.

“You okay?” Derek mumbles into his neck. His hands do the amazing squeezing thing again. Stiles is going to have beard burn again. There’s only so much respect your patients will give you when you look like you’ve been necking with sandpaper. “Tired?”

Stiles jerks his head back and forth. “No, I should go.” He says, just tapping Derek’s shoulders as a gross, cold feeling settles in his stomach.

“Yeah,” Derek says, pulling away. He runs a hand over his face in what looks like frustration. More weight settles in Stiles’ stomach. Derek doesn’t need this. He’s probably annoyed. “Yeah, okay. Do you need anything?”

Stiles shakes his head. He just prays that Derek’s eyesight isn’t good enough to notice the way that Stiles’ hands are shaking when he reaches out to take his coat from where it’s hanging on a hook behind the door. “I just need to get some sleep. My shift ends soon.”

“Alright.” Derek answers, the word lifting at the end like he’s not fully sure it is alright.

“I’m fine.” Stiles answers firmly. Years of guidance counselors and well-meaning RAs have trained him in the art of deceiving people into making them think he’s a totally normal person.

The 'I’m fine' is typically the answer everyone gives when things are totally not fine.

“If you say so.” Derek answers. And Stiles is incredibly happy that Derek’s giving him this out.

If they keep talking in these short, half formed sentences, Stiles is going to die from mortification. So instead of answering, he just shrugs on his lab coat and goes to find his roomie so that he can get some sleep in his actual bed for once.

He doesn’t realize until he’s halfway down the hall that Derek never followed him out of the closet (a sentence he never thought he would ever use considering that what his dad found on his browser history at 14 meant never really coming out, he was just already there).

Whatever.

Stiles finds Scott in the locker room, throwing all of his laundry into a stolen medical waste bag from the janitor’s closet. “Ready to go?” Stiles asks him, changing into the hoodie and jeans he wore to work in record time.

Scott raises an eyebrow. “You mean you’re actually coming back with me?”

Stiles scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I? I pay rent. I live there.”

“Not for the last month you haven’t.” Scott says. “You work 16 hour shifts, 6 days a week. And on the days you work, you go home with Derek.” Scott whispers the last part. Though Stiles is pretty sure the only people who don’t know about Stiles and Derek are Melissa, the Sheriff, the Chief, Parrish, and Jackson. The beard burn doesn’t lie.

“I do not.” Stiles argues. He puts on his backpack. “Can we just go?”

Scott rolls his eyes and lugs his laundry over his shoulder. “Whatever, you’re being weird. I’m fine.”

“I am not.” Stiles practically growls as they exit the hospital. They walk to Scott’s car and throw their stuff into the trunk. All of the education they had has broken Scott of his ambition to ride his motorcycle everywhere. Both his mom and Stiles are insanely happy to hear about that.

Scott’s pretty quiet as he starts the car and pulls it out on to the street. Stiles totally doesn’t look out the window at Derek’s building where Derek’s walking to the door. He’s wearing his glasses and dragging his feet, probably about to make himself some toast and then fall into bed.

Stiles didn’t even say goodbye. He just freaked out and took off. Though, considering that it took him weeks on end to even admit that he liked Derek. So this is par for the course. A very awkward and strained course.

Still, it must mean something that the nasty part of his brain is suddenly worried about the inevitable fact that Derek will die. And he will. Because everyone does. Unless you sell your soul to the devil. Or if you are the devil.

Derek’s gonna die one day. Hopefully as an incredibly old man in his bed, peacefully.

God, he can’t even think about this right now.

Stiles pushes it away in his mind, presses his head against the cool window of Scott’s passenger seat and wills his hands to stop their fine tremors.

“You’re freaking me out.” Scott says, pulling into the apartment complex they live in a few blocks from the hospital. Though, from the amount of mail sticking out of their mailbox, there isn’t much indication that they really live there at all.

“Shut up.” Stiles says, fondly.

Together they walk up to the door of their apartment and Scott lets them inside. It’s a typical bachelor pad. With no coasters in sight and a stack of video games on top of the coffee table. A few beer cans are sitting on the counter. Sties used to think this place looked ‘Lived in’, now he mostly thinks it looks like shit.

“Beer?” Scott asks, walking to the fridge.

It’s seven in the morning, Stiles is so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. “Sure.” He says, walking to the couch.

He makes it about three sips and then his head hits the back of the couch and the sounds of Scott playing Call of Duty fades into the background.

He wavers in between being asleep and awake for a while. Eventually he slumps down until he’s mostly horizontal on the couch, so tired that even the light coming in through the drapes doesn’t bother him.

They need those blackout curtains that Derek has.

It goes on like that for a while. And then he wakes to Scott shaking his knee, shirtless with his phone clutched up to his ear.

“I’m awake Chief.” Stiles mumbles, blinking his eye open. But Scott’s already walking to where his keys are sitting on the breakfast bar.

Part of Stiles thrums awake suddenly, forces him to sit straight up on the couch, the vestiges of sleep falling from him instantly. He can tell by the furrow between his best friend’s eyebrows that something is wrong. Scott’s pulling on a hoodie that’s resting over the back of one of the stools. It’s clearly Allison’s sweater, not that Scott’s noticed.

“Who is it?” Stiles asks, jumping up from the couch.

Scott’s eyes go wide, and Stiles doesn’t need to know what the voice on the other end of the phone is saying to know who it is.

His eyes flick to the television, which tells him that its noon. Lunchtime and the street outside will be clogged with people headed to lunch in the middle of their workday. Very clearly he hears the sirens of an incoming ambulance.

He doesn’t wait for Scott to follow him. Stiles is outside, barefoot and suddenly surrounded by the bright sunlight shining through the trees outside their complex. It’s only a few blocks away.

He takes off running, heart pounding in his ears and stomach like a cold stone thing. And in this moment he doesn’t even care what he looks like, with the crazed look in his eyes and how his hands are curled into fists at his sides.

“Stiles!” A voice yells, but he doesn’t have it in him to stop running. Because he knows what’s waiting for him only a block away. “Stiles stop!”

A hand reaches out and coils around his wrist, pulling him to an abrupt stop. But the momentum of running sends Stiles and the other person head over heels in the grassy area in front of the diner next to the hospital.

He has a brief moment of absolute panic when the world rights itself and he finds himself staring up into Derek’s green eyes. The other man still has his headphones in and there’s sweat glistening at his temples. But besides that, he looks incredibly concerned to find his boyfriend (or whatever) running full-tilt towards the hospital.

But Stiles doesn’t have the time to explain what’s going on. Instead, he plants both of his hands on Derek’s shoulders and pushes the other man with all of his might, leaving Derek sprawling on his ass as Stiles jumps up and continues on his journey to the hospital.

The ambulance is still sitting at the emergency room doors, empty with the engine still running. Stiles follows the commotion of people all calling out different things. Things like vital signs, ‘shot on duty’, and a variety of other horrifying things. Stiles stumbles into the emergency room like a man on a mission, he follows the sounds of the team all surrounding a gurney in an area that hasn’t been curtained off yet.

“Stiles.” A voice says, a bit unsure at first. Stiles’ eyes flick to where Isaac is on the phone, holding a chart in one hand. He hands the phone to the nurse beside him, “ER 1, order blood.” And then he’s rounding the desk. “Man, you can’t be here.”

Isaac tries to get between Stiles and the man on the gurney not 20 feet away. “Hey! I’m serious.” Isaac says, holding up his hands as though that’s going to stop Stiles from getting to that gurney.

For all that Isaac was probably trying to help, he gets a right hook to the stomach as a reward. Stiles spared his face though, and he has a feeling Isaac’s gonna thank him for that.

“Whoa!” Someone else calls out. “What the fuck are you doing Stilinski?”

Lydia. That one’s Lydia, walking into the emergency room in her street clothes. Her wet hair pulled into a messy bun. Then her eyes flick to the gurney and the fact that two cop cars have just pulled up the emergency room.

“Don’t.” Lydia says, Stiles realizes that Jackson’s been slowly coming towards him. “It’s his dad. Don’t Jackson.”

And hearing that just makes it far too real for Stiles. He feels like he’s walking through a nightmare as he crosses the emergency room to where Parrish, the chief, an intern, two nurses, and a man that Stiles has never seen before are all surrounding his dad.

His dad whose eyes are closed and an alarmingly large circle of blood is spreading across his uniform. There’s a mask over his face, pushing oxygen into his lungs due to the efforts of the intern holding the bag.

“Get him out of here!” Parrish is yelling. Stiles realizes a bit belatedly that Parrish is talking about him. Stiles is, after all, the one who knocked not one but two men to the ground in the last 90 seconds.

“Don’t you dare.” Lydia says, pulling on a pair of gloves and a trauma gown over her dress. “Do you want him killing someone?”

Stiles is too shocked to laugh at the dichotomy of his father laying there with a bullet in his chest, while Lydia tells everyone that Stiles might be the one who causes a death in this room.

“Just give him a status update.” A voice says over Stiles’ shoulder. Its Derek, looking not at all out of breath. There’s grass stains on his hands and knees though.

Parrish’s eyes flick up, annoyed. And this really isn’t something that he should do. He should take the time to tell Stiles what is going on while his dad struggles for life a few feet away. 

“Routine traffic stop, bullet wound to left upper chest, fluids in the field, low pressure, intermittent heart activity in the field.” The man Stiles has never seen says. He’s wearing a dress shirt, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His brown hair is a bit longer in the front, falling into his eyes blue eyes. He has some blood on his shirt, but looks fine other than that.

Derek’s hand falls down on Stiles’ shoulder, stopping him before he can make his way closer to the gurney. Stiles can see the heart monitor resting on his dad’s legs that his rhythm is weak and unsteady. But it’s a rhythm, and that’s all you can really ask for.

The man who gave Stiles the update suddenly perks his head up, head tilting to the side. “Peter.” Derek says from behind Stiles. His hand squeezes on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Open chest tray.” he man barks at a passing nurse. Stiles shakes his head. There’s no evidence that they need one--

And that’s when the heart monitor gives a shrill warning sound as it flatlines.

“Jesus.” Stiles exclaims softly, and he feels his knees threaten to give out. Derek’s strong arms forcefully turn him around, tucking Stiles into his embrace. Stiles weakly fights him. But coiled up like this against Derek’s chest, there’s not much he can do. Stiles’ chin hooks over Derek’s shoulder, using it as a perch.

“You don’t need to see this.” Derek tells him. His chest rumbles against Stiles’. Stiles hands are caught against Derek, the only thing he can do is curl them into fists around the folds of Derek’s stupid Harvard shirt.

There’s the general sound that follows a trauma. People calling for things, clothing being cut away, machines beeping, nurses arriving with medication. All the while Stiles can only focus on that heart monitor that keeps singing the same old single note.

And that dark part does an evil thing, tells him that this is what was preparing Stiles for. If he could wake up from this nightmare right now, that would seriously be awesome.

Instead, he stands in Derek’s embrace, is joined by Scott only seconds later.

“It’s gonna be fine.” Scott says, but there’s a dazed quality to his voice.

Derek’s head butts against his own, his arms coiling a bit tighter. “If this is—“ Stiles begins, but he can’t continue. His voice dries up in his throat, leaving him breathless.

“It’s not.” Derek says. And he has to say that. He’s the guy who operates on children, remakes them better and fixes their problems. Of course in this moment he’s optimistic. He probably doesn’t have a part of his brain that tells him catastrophe is around the corner.

“But—“ Stiles objects.

“Shut up.” Derek says, his hand flex and release against Stiles’ back.

And then there’s a break in the shrill sound of the heart monitor. There’s a beep. And then another. And another. And they continue for seconds on end.

“There he is.” The new man (Peter?) says.

And only then does Derek let Stiles go. He spins around to see that yes, there is a pool of blood on the ground, a terrifying metal instrument holding his father’s insides open; exposing the squishy things keeping him alive, and a man in a dress shirt has his hand wrapped around Stiles’ dad’s heart, having massaged it back into working order.

This is both the best and worst day of Stiles’ life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeated...
> 
> So there's that.

Stiles is silent. And that’s honestly the most alarming thing about this situation.

Stiles—always asking questions during rounds, volunteering answers when he hasn’t been called on, muttering in his sleep, talking to himself while he charts, gossiping with nurses, singing under his breath in the shower—is silent.

And it’s scaring the shit out of Derek.

This whole experience had seriously knocked Derek for a new one. He has absolutely no idea what to do or say when Stiles must be going crazy on the inside. Then there’s Peter, cooly standing there with blood up to his wrist before Parrish invites him to scrub in on the surgery because their regular cardio guy is working on a valve replacement. And Peter is the guy you want to operate on you. He just isn't the guy you want to count on for anything else.

Though, honestly it’s not that surprising to have Peter show up unannounced and uninvited. But if Derek’s going to be honest, the loft is actually Peter’s apartment. So he actually doesn’t need an invitation.

Within five minutes, the sheriff is being wheeled into the elevator so they can take him into surgery. And the heart monitor doesn’t stop with its steady beeping the whole time, but Derek knows how sometimes a person’s life can balance on an edge as narrow as a scalpel’s blade. The whole time Stiles just stands there, one hand drawn up to his mouth, obliterating his thumbnail with his teeth.

At some point, Melissa joins them, standing between Stiles and Scott. And it’s not the time to think about these kinds of things. But Derek can’t help thinking that this image has got to be reminiscent of the teenage antics they got up to. Scott’s wearing pajama pants and a purple hoodie 5 sizes too small, his abs are showing out the bottom of his sweater. He’s got two different shoes on and a pair of high tops clutched in his free hand that must belong to Stiles. Because Stiles is barefoot and pale, standing in the emergency room. And he has a look in his eyes that reminds Derek of when he first met Stiles.

Back when Derek was just a college student who had been dispatched back home to take care of his uncle who fell off the wagon again. And Stiles was a high school kid going through something even more awful. Not that Derek knows anything other than the story his mother sketched out to him after Stiles’ mother died.

They met one room over, where the same TV still sits up in the corner, playing infomercials in the middle of the night.

But at least back then Stiles had spoken to him.

Now he’s just staring, even after they take his dad up to the surgical floor. This silence after the trauma is deafening. Orderlies have arrived to clean up the floor, and a pair of nurses are gathering debris from the ground and dropping it into a medical waste bag.

“Not that.” Stiles says, finally breaking the silence when one of the nurses goes to throw a scrap of khaki fabric into the bag in her hand. Derek nearly jumps at the sound of Stiles’ voice. It’s more a croak, honestly. Like his throat is constricting so much that it’s trapped all his words inside.

Melissa clears her throat, stepping forward. “I’ll take it.” She says, holding out her hand. One of the nurses raises an eyebrow. “It’s part of his uniform. I’ll take it.”

The scrap of fabric is deposited into a smaller plastic bag and then Melissa hands it to Stiles, who then turns it over in his hands. And there, behind the layer of plastic his father’s brass badge gleams in the florescent lights above them. There’s some blood on the metal. But a lot less than Derek expected, honestly.

Stiles’ hands tighten around the bag in his hands and then he takes off, walking towards the elevator.

“Buddy?” Scott asks, sounding worried but also a little scared as well.

Derek turns to Melissa, she nods and swallows against the lump in her throat. There are tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. “I’ll go after him.” Derek says, taking Stiles’ shoes from Scott. “You should stay with her.” He tells Scott.

“You keep him away from the surgical gallery.” Melissa says, running one hand through her hair.

“You got it.” Derek promises, heading to the bank of elevators where Stiles is tapping his bare foot against the linoleum floor. Stiles is the kind of person who pokes his bruises, so of course he’s going to try to sit in on his dad’s surgery.

When the elevator arrives, luckily there’s no one inside. Stiles steps in and immediately hits the button for the third floor, where the surgical wing is. Where Peter is probably operating on Stiles’ father as they don’t speak.

“You should put these on.” Derek says once the doors have closed.

Derek holds out the shoes but Stiles makes no move to take them. Instead he reaches past Derek and hits the emergency stop button on the panel by the door. Immediately, a buzzing alarm sounds in the small space they’re standing in. Derek puts out a hand to rest it on Stiles’ shoulder, but the other man backs into the wall where the panel is, blocking it with his body.

Stiles has been looking down this whole time that they’ve been in the elevator. The last time he made eye contact with Derek had been when Derek saw him running down the street like a mad man and tried to intercept him. Stiles’ eyes had looked frantic in that moment, huge and glassy. Now there’s something calculating in the way that his eyes are narrowed in Derek’s direction.

Derek distinctly feels his stomach clench at the look on Stiles’ face.

“You knew his heart was going to stop beating.” Stiles says it like a fact. Like he’s at his rounds for the day and this is something on the chart before him.

He says it like its something he knows, without a shadow of a doubt.

And the thing is, Derek wishes it wasn’t true.

But it is.

“You and that guy who rode in with the paramedics.” Stiles says. The things he’s saying, coupled with the low buzz of the alarm has the hair of the back of Derek’s neck standing on end. He wants to raise his hackles and make himself bigger than he is. It’s a response to stress. Not unlike Stiles, Derek’s response to danger has always been more fight than flight. “I don’t know how you did it, but you knew.”

“Stiles.” Derek says, but his voice comes out so small that it gets eaten up by the alarm still ringing.

Stiles’ mouth tightens and his eyebrows draw together. There’s a red flush rising up his neck to his face. Derek’s only seen this once, when Jackson beat Stiles out on an assist for surgery months ago. He doesn’t remember exactly how he did it or why, but he’d found Stiles by accident that night. The younger man had been sitting on the floor of a supply closet, snapping tongue depressors in half.

And then Stiles had pretty much used Derek for his body for an hour in an on call room until he got his aggression out. Something tells Derek that’s not the way this is going to go.

More likely, Stiles is never going to speak to him again. Or if he does speak to him, he won’t trust Derek, and really that would be worse.

“Don’t tell me something that’s going to make me think I’m going insane, Derek.” Stiles says. His arms crossed over his chest. Derek ignores the fact that there’s a cowlick making his hair stand on end at the back of his head. “Don’t you dare tell me that while my dad is upstairs fighting for his life. You better tell me exactly what’s going on—because something is going on here—before I start freaking out.”

“This isn’t really the time, Stiles.” Derek answers, feeling like a total chump. But honestly, it really isn’t. There has never been less of time for this conversation than right now. Right now someone needs to find Stiles some socks and a blanket. He doesn’t need to find out something that’s going to change his whole worldview.

“That’s bullshit!” Stiles exclaims, his voice echoing off the metal walls. Derek wonders who can hear them outside the elevator doors. “You—you tell me, Derek. Or so help me, I’ll figure it out on my own.”

The way that Stiles is looking at him right now makes Derek want to tell the complete opposite of the truth. Lie through his teeth to give Stiles some peace of mind. Tell him he saw a rhythm on the heart monitor. But no one else noticed it? He and Peter reacted seconds before the Sheriff’s heart stopped beating all together.

How to begin?

“I was born different, Stiles.” Derek says. Sties sighs and rolls his eyes, looking up at the ceiling like he thinks whatever Derek is about to tell him is utter bullshit. “Hey, you wanted an explanation. I have faster reflexes than other people, a higher tolerance for pain, I heal at a rate that’s pretty much inexplicable, and I have heightened senses.”

“Congratulations, you’re a fucking superhero.” Stiles scoffs.

“No, I’m a werewolf.” Derek says, clipping off the end of Stiles sentence, speaking over him. And when he finishes his last word, there’s a silence hanging in the room even with the ever present buzzing of the alarm.

Stiles shakes his head, turning around and hitting the button that reengages the elevator. The alarm falls away and the elevator jolts back into movement.

Derek’s stomach is one giant pit of nerves, his heart pumping in his chest without abandon. He feels caged up in the elevator, wants to feel fresh air on his skin.

“I’ve only ever told one person about this, and she punched me in the face. But you’ve already done that.” Derek grumbles, if only to fill the silence. “And you’ve already punched someone today, so please don’t punch anyone else.”

And he gets nothing from Stiles. Just hollow eyes and hunched shoulders that make him look like the intern Derek found so awfully upset about losing his first patient. It makes Derek wonder if Stiles has lost something today as well.

Derek wonders if Stiles has lost him.

He can feel it in his bones that the elevator is quickly approaching the surgical floor.

“I heard his heart start to break down. Subtly. Like it was going to stop. And Peter heard it too because he’s like me.” Derek says in a rush. Because it feels like this could be the last time he gets to be alone with Stiles. “I wanted to give your dad every chance at survival. I couldn’t not say anything. And we saved seconds. Stiles, you know how much seconds matter when you’re dealing with a trauma.”

But Stiles turns away from him. The tips of his ears are very pink against his dark brown hair.

The doors to the surgical floor open and Stiles steps out, walking to the OR board where his father’s information has already been posted. He’ll be in OR 3 along with Parrish, Lydia, Peter, and a few select interns.

The chief is standing before the OR board when Stiles approaches, and really it makes sense that he would step out. Peter is one of the most talented cardiothoracic surgeons on the west coast. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that.

“Son, you can’t be up here.” The chief says when he realizes that Stiles is making his way towards the scrub rooms.

Derek steps out of the elevator, sees Boyd and Erica, two residents three years into the program standing at the nurses station. They raise their heads when they see Derek approach.

“Problem, boss?” Erica asks, flipping her charts closed and eyeing him up and down. Derek is more than aware of how stupid he looks right now in the hospital. He feels pretty much the same way on the inside.

“I need you and Boyd to take Stiles up to the gallery in 3. Tell the chief you’re taking him back down to the ER to fill out paper work. Pull the curtains on the gallery. I’ll ask for Parrish to call up with updates every half hour.” Derek says, looking over his shoulder. Stiles hasn’t said anything to the chief, which is a miracle. But it looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.

Derek thrusts Stiles’ shoes into Boyd’s hands. Boyd looks down at the shoes with a bit of disgust and then shrugs, heading over to where the chief is trying to tell Stiles with as much tact as possible that he needs to go away.

Erica pauses before heading to follow Boyd. “I saw Peter. Is everything okay?” She asks. Derek shakes his head.

“I’m pretty sure that in the history of my life, I have never been less okay than I am in this moment. And you know me. My measurement for awful is calibrated differently than anyone else’s.” Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Erica pokes him in the ribs. “Okay Bruce Wayne, return to your Bat Cave and polish your cowl.”

Derek flashes his eyes blue at her before he turns and heads back to the elevator. The doors open a moment later and Derek steps inside. The last thing that he sees before the doors close is Boyd leading Stiles down the hallway toward the stairs that lead to the gallery. Erica looks back over her shoulder and she smiles at him.

Her eyes flash yellow and the doors close all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I love comments and kudos!!!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Derek does what he said he would. He calls up to the OR and asks Parrish to update Stiles up in the gallery. While he’s calling from the E.R. phone, Derek notices all the police officers (both off and on duty) who have gathered in the waiting room. He asks Parrish to page Isaac if anything changes and then tells Isaac he’d better not screw this up. To his credit, Isaac raises an eyebrow and doesn’t take it personally that Derek’s giving him shit.

“You did a good job,” Derek tells the younger man, clasping his shoulder. “You held it together even when Stiles punched you. I’m proud of you.”

Isaac shrugs and looks down at his feet. “I had a good teacher.” Is what he says.

Derek rolls his eyes. “If you could give me a call when his dad is out of surgery, I would appreciate it. Boyd and Erica are upstairs with him.”

Isaac nods, quickly turning away when Melissa approaches, looking a little wide-eyed and strained.

“What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be up there with Stiles, perhaps forcibly restraining him from entering the OR.” Melissa asks, crossing her arms over her chest. And seriously could she give Derek’s mother a run for her money.

“Please trust me when I say that I’m the last person that Stiles wants to see right now. I left him with Boyd and Erica, they’ll look after him.” Derek tells her, not missing the way she narrows her eyes at him.

“Look,” Melissa says, pointing a finger at him. “I don’t really know what’s going on between the two of you.” She gestures between Derek and thin air. “But it’s more than being his chief resident.”

“Is this the part where you threaten my career for taking advantage of Stiles?” Derek asks in a tired voice. Half an hour ago he was on a run.

“Of course not, Stiles is an adult. I know what goes on in this hospital. How many times do you think I’ve caught people having sex here? Too many to count. Fill up a building with a bunch of sleep deprived twenty-somethings and there are bound to be more than a few accidental pregnancies.” Melissa rambles. Derek’s eyes get wider and wider. He’s never seen her this unhinged.

“Unless there’s some kind of science fiction miracle, that last thing isn’t going to be a problem.” Derek responds.

Melissa rolls her eyes in a move that Scott’s clearly learned. “If you hurt him, I will stab you with a hypodermic needle.” Is what she says in response, whisking away to yell at a gaggle of interns all gathered around the nurses’ station.

Derek leaves the hospital then, entering the outside world after even such a short time inside the hospital is like a shock to his system what with its cool breeze, bright sunlight, the sounds of birds chirping in the trees, and the smell of car exhaust from the main road in town.

He heads across the street and takes a left instead of heading into his own building. The door to Cora’s Bar is propped open by a cinder block and inside there are a few exhausted looking hospital employees who came off of their shift five hours ago. Clearly some of them are hammered by the way that they’re swaying distractedly in their bar stools to Lana Del Rey.

Cora’s behind the bar as usual, her hair piled up on top of her hair in a messy bun. She’s dressed like she rolled out of bed and then came to work, which is probably accurate considering that she lives in the apartment upstairs.

“My god,” Cora says, throwing a towel over her shoulder like she must have learned from Cheers. “It’s mom’s favorite son.”

“I’m her only son.” Derek says, depositing himself into a stool close to the door, near the end of the bar.

“Yeah, and thus her favorite.” Cora argues, grinning. “Oh, we aren’t smiling today? What happened? Apart from the fact that your boyfriend took off on you this morning? Lose your Fitbit? Someone take all your favorite yogurt at the grocery store?”

Derek pins her with a withering look and points at the locked cabinet behind the bar where she keeps the aconite infused tequila. “That bad?” Cora asks, frowning as she retrieves the key from where it hangs on a loop on her belt.

Cora sets the bottle, a glass, and a bowl of limes before Derek. Because she’s family. She knows that if Derek’s gonna set out to drink, he’s going to do it right.

“I feel like we should get you a sandwich, maybe some fries.” Cora says, sitting on her own stool behind the bar and wiping down glasses from the sink. “You’re gonna regret this later. You always throw up when you drink.”

“I do not.” Derek growls, pouring his first of what will undoubtedly be a lot of shots for the day.

“Tell that to everyone who attended your graduation party. Because you threw up in the pool and clogged the filter.” Cora responds, Derek waves a hand at her, throwing back a shot and then sucking all the juice out of a lime until his mouth stops burning. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Derek sighs. “I told him.”

Cora’s eyes go wide, she takes the bottle from his hand and swigs from it. The Hale family remains as classy as ever.

“Rinse. Repeat. Explain.” Cora implores him.

And so Derek tells her the whole story, about how he went home and fitfully deep-cleaned his apartment, tried to sleep but couldn’t for the life of him. Derek had set out on a run through the preserve, up to the house their parents kept for Thanksgivings and whatever pack issues they needed to address with other territories.

It had all been pretty great, until he heard gunshots a few miles away and then the sirens. For all the Beacon Hills was in pretty close proximity to the city, they didn’t have much gun violence apart from a few hunting accidents every now and then. So Derek had continued into town, only to find an ambulance loading Stiles’ father inside and Peter’s car pulled onto the shoulder of the road. His uncle was already working on the Sheriff when Derek had arrived.

What had been a peaceful run turned into an all out sprint for Derek as he hurried into town.

That’s when he had seen Stiles running down the street as though he could outrun the wind, and yeah, trying to stop him had been a poor decision considering the grass stains on his shorts and elbows. But it hadn’t been something that Derek thought much about before it happened. The same could be said for how he and Stiles got together in the first place, but there isn’t enough tequila in the world for Derek to analyze that. Not right now.

The main point is that Derek told Stiles, told him all about the thing that his parents made him swear he would only tell people about if he was willing to have his life bound up with theirs forever. And yeah, the way that Stiles had looked at Derek has him wondering if he’s totally miscalculated everything that he thought about Stiles.

“And he’s pissed?” Cora prompts.

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s a word for the amount of mistrust that Stiles has for me right now.”

Cora snorted, “You need to be drinking more if you can string a sentence like that together. Tell me about the injury.”

Derek glares at her from across the bar. Cora lifts her hands shrugging. “What, I’m curious! Just because I dropped out of my residency doesn’t mean I don’t want to know about all the blood and stuff.”

And of course, that’s the moment that Jackson plants himself down on a stool a little ways away.

“I really don’t know.” Derek says, shrugging. “I didn’t get too close.”

“To what?” Jackson asks, holding up a twenty in Cora’s direction. She ignores him. Jackson puts down the twenty and leans over the bar to fetch his own bottle of whisky and a glass. “Stilinski’s dad?” Derek and Cora nod. “Gunshot wound to the upper left chest, severed some pretty serious arteries, ricochet punctured a lung and part of a bullet is lodged in his kidney. Then there’s broken ribs, of course.”

It’s a series of statements that would have someone outside of the medical field turning white. But not Derek and Cora. They hear the positives. The heart didn’t sustain direct injury. The spine remains intact. The kidney didn’t rupture.

Plus they know that the hands putting Sheriff Stilinski’s chest back together are insured for millions of dollars. It’s enough to actually have Derek feel hopeful.

Though that might be the tequila too.

“That’s pretty lucky.” Cora says, taking the bottle from Jackson and putting it away, “all things considered.”

Derek nods, but he can’t really say all the things that are coming to mind. About how he would rather be waiting this out in a terrible silence by Stiles’ side rather than in a bar down the block with his sister and a guy who just beat syphilis.

Jackson nods, pulling out his phone, “That reminds me. I need to make a call.” Jackson proceeds to place the largest order for Chinese food that Derek has ever heard. But it gives Cora time to ask Derek the things that they can’t talk about in front of Jackson.

“Did he believe you?” Cora asks, pitching her voice low. Though pretty much all of her regulars are already drunk.

Derek sighs, “I honestly couldn’t tell. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t even look at me.”

“Well, maybe he thinks you’re crazy.” Cora says like it’s a good thing. “If he thinks you’re just crazy, there’s like a 100% less chance of the National Enquirer showing up at your apartment building by tomorrow morning.”

Derek glares at her, reaching for the bottle resting on the bar. The purple liquid inside smells like a tangy combination of alcohol and the flowers of the monkshood they grow in the garden next to the house. Derek pours himself a generous shot and slugs it back, his throat burning.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Derek says.

“I’m a bartender, and your sister. I don’t make people better, that’s what you do. I’m just here to tell it to you like it is.” Cora says, shrugging. “And right now you’re pretty much at the mercy of a guy who’s dad is fighting for his life. Willy Wonka wouldn’t have enough sugar to coat this situation.”

Derek hates his sister in that moment.

When she pours them both a shot and produces nachos out of nowhere minutes later, he hates her a little less.

 

\----------

 

It’s preposterous that nothing is working. Stiles has pinched himself, willed his mind to wake, and asked Boyd to slap him.

And cheek stinging, Stiles settles back into the hard plastic chair of the surgical gallery with the knowledge that this is not a bad dream. This is real life.

Boyd and Erica must have done well on their psyche rotation for all that they don’t look at all concerned by Stiles’ behavior. Erica’s playing something on her phone and Boyd’s settled himself in with notepad and paper, it looks like quizzing himself on something for a workshop on triage.

It’s been hours, five hours since his dad’s been in the OR. Stiles has received no less than 10 updates to his father’s condition from Parrish or Lydia in that time. Of course, there have been times when complicated repairs have failed and they’ve had to use the paddles to restart his heart once, but that was hours ago. With Peter Hale down in the OR, things are going smoother than they have any right to.

What with the fact that he and Derek share not only a last name, but also a creepy set of supernatural powers if Derek’s to be believed. And how can he be believed? It’s like Derek believes that the plot of Twilight can translate to real life. Like he can tell Stiles that he’s some kind of wolfman.

Like that’s even possible.

Stiles scoffs to himself.

“And who even is this Peter guy in the first place?” Stiles asks out loud as though he and the two residents in the room have been holding a conversation this whole time, which they haven’t. When he got up to go the restroom, Boyd came with him as though he was a convicted felon about to stage an escape. His warning that Stiles better not do anything stupid had been one of three sentences Boyd’s spoken this whole time.

Erica looks up from her phone, her eyebrows drawing together. Her eyes flick over to Boyd, who pointedly checks his watch.

“I’m gonna go ahead and assume that you aren’t a total idiot.” Erica says, “Because I have to do that right now considering that we’re in the same program. You’ve gotta know about the Hales and their dynasty of surgical greatness. Like the Hale method for heart and lung transplants. And Derek’s sister, Laura the brain surgeon at Colombia with her own practice at 32. Not to mention their chartable foundation that gives grants to the most cutting age research in the surgical field. I seriously need to believe that you at least Googled Derek before you decided to go after him in the first place.”

Holy shit.

Like seriously. Holy shit.

Derek’s family are like the Clintons of medicine. Only without the Lewinski scandal. Unless they’re powerful enough to hush something like that up.

But the fact that Derek is one of _those_ Hales and not just a random Hale like Stiles had thought isn’t what his mind chooses to focus on.

Instead, he finds himself latching on to the idea that Stiles went after Derek knowing that his family was all connected.

“I didn’t go after Derek.” Stiles argues. Boyd looks up from his note to throw Stiles some side eye. “I didn’t. Derek and I kind of just collided in a total freak accident. Also, how do you know?”

Erica scoffs. “Apart from the fact that you two are always arguing like you’re about to throw each other down and assert your dominance? Derek told us.”

Stiles shakes his head. “What? Why? No he didn’t. Derek doesn’t tell anyone anything. Ever.” Not unless he’s trapped in an elevator, and then it turns into an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Um.” Boyd answers, “Because we’re his friends?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and throws himself out of the chair, pacing back and forth across the small room.

“But to answer your original question, before you have a total meltdown.” Erica says in a bored tone. “Peter is Derek’s uncle.”

Uncle. World renowned heart surgeon. Alleged werewolf.

Stiles has to sit down again.

Two hours later Stiles gets the call from a very tired sounding Lydia that they’ve closed his father up and will be moving him to recovery.

“And if you’re a very good boy and don’t punch anyone, we’ll let you come in and see him. But then I’m going to send you home.” Lydia tells him, her voice hoarse but still resilient.

“Yeah, whatever.” Stiles tells her, itching to throw back the curtains to see what’s going on the OR right at that minute. Though, he has a feeling that Boyd and Erica are under some kind of contract to keep him from seeing his father’s organs. “And also, thanks.”

Lydia sighs over the phone. “It went much better than I though it would, he’s a lucky man.”

And then she hangs up.

Stiles tries not to run for the door to take him to recovery.  Boyd gives him a warning look, packing up his notes. “I’ll go with him.” Erica says, grabbing Stiles by the elbow and marching him out the door like she’s his bodyguard and there are reporters waiting outside by his limo.

“Please don’t do anything too stupid, Stilinski.” Erica says, steering him though hallways.

“Like what?” Stiles asks, feeling a nauseous mix of giddy and worried. For all that he’s excited to see his dad is still breathing, it’s going to gut him to have to see the man hooked up to a dozen machines and monitors.

“I’ve yet to meet you before today, but from what I’ve heard, you have a habit of making a spectacle of yourself. Sleeping with your head resident, giving yourself a concussion, stabbing your bestie with an IV needle in the middle of a trauma, punching a fellow intern, threatening to plaster the town with billboards decrying the Whitmore kid, sneaking your way onto cases you have no reason to be on, and the incredibly loud and obnoxious sex you have with my friend on the regular in on call rooms.” Erica lists off. And seriously, hearing it all in a row like that makes Stiles want a drink.

“It’s my dad.” Stiles says, “I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize his care.”

He tries not to think too hard about how that’s pretty much what Derek had said in the elevator before Stiles escaped into the hallway.

Best not to dwell on that until he finds out exactly what condition his dad’s in.

The chief is standing out in the hallway rear recovery. Erica’s hand clenches on his elbow, steering him away on a dime.

“Dr. Reyes.” The chief’s voice sounds softly in the hallway, Erica pauses, her face scrunched up as they’ve clearly been caught. “If you’re going to secret Dr. Stilinski away into the gallery, you should at least have the foresight to disable the security cameras first.” Then he turns to Stiles, “I’m happy to hear your father has made it through surgery.”

Stiles nods, his throat feeling tight. “Chief Deaton.” He says, nodding.

“I’m just gonna take him to see his dad, then he’s going home.” Erica says, looking down at him threateningly. Stiles does his best to look like he’s in agreement when in reality there isn’t a force on this earth that’s gonna pull him from his dad’s bedside before he opens his eyes.

“Be sure he does.” The chief says, half a smile appearing and then fading away a second later.

Erica leads him away, down the hall to where the recovery rooms are. In this part of the hospital there aren’t any visitors allowed, so the sound of beeping machines is the only thing filling the silence. It’s too creepy.

Half way down the hall, Erica pushes a door open and looks pointedly inside.

And there he is, with tubes seemingly everywhere and practically a bank of monitors relaying his vital signs. His dad looks a bit deflated against the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. The light green of his hospital gown is so different from the khaki of his uniform with its starched creases and the brass badge Stiles hasn’t let go of since it was put in his hands.

It’s enough to make Stiles lose his breath, the tightness in his chest constricts tighter and his eyes feel watery. Erica keeps a hold on his elbow and steers him towards a chair next to the bed, practically forcing him to sit down.

“Don’t want you falling down and cracking your head open on the floor.” She mutters, but there’s a softness in her eyes when she looks down at him.

Stiles nods, wordless, and reaches out to put his hand over his dad’s. And even though his dad’s hands look like they’ve lived a whole different life than his son’s, they’re a resemblance. There are scars on the backs of his father’s hands from building tree houses, breaking down doors, and burning himself on Thanksgiving years ago. Stiles knows that if he turned his dad’s hand over, there would be calluses from years spent at the firing range and behind the wheel of a police cruiser.

It’s putting his hand over his father’s and feeling the warmth of the skin there that really lets Stiles know that he’s really there and alive. There’s no dream that could feel that real.

He’s going to give his dad such hell when he wakes up for not wearing his vest on traffic stops like he’s supposed to.

Stiles sits there for a few minutes, Erica stands by the door probably to growl at anyone who gets too close who shouldn’t be there. It goes on like that for a little while.

Until a shadow crosses the door and the smell of expensive cologne fills the room. Stiles looks up as Peter Hale saunters into the room, wearing a set of dark blue attending surgeon scrubs and holding a chart in his multi-million dollar hands. Now that he’s closer, Stiles can see a bit of a resemblance between Derek and his uncle. They both hold themselves like their keeping something back, but there’s a fierce look they both get on their faces during an emergency. Stiles had seen that well enough in the ER that morning.

Peter looks more relaxed now. His hair is wet at the temples and there’s an easier sway to his gait as he ignores Stiles, walking to the bed. Stiles supposes that Peter took the time after the surgery to take a shower in the lounge for the attending physicians.

Stiles stares at how Peter’s strong, deft fingers are curled around the pen in his right hand. All he can think about is the fact that Peter’s right hand had curled around his father’s heart, holding it its palm as it brought it back to life.

It’s both creepy and astonishing.

Peter seems pretty content to ignore Stiles as he circles the bed, taking inventory of the equipment and the readouts on the different screens. Finally, when it seems like he’s satisfied, he sits down on the corner of Stiles’ dad’s hospital bed and brings his hands together.

“So, Derek told you everything, did he?” Peter says, his blue eyes narrowing on Stiles not unkindly. It’s mostly like he’s assessing the damage as though Stiles is in need of triage.

Stiles looks immediately to Erica, watching her pull the door to the hallways closed and then stand against it. Her face betrays nothing.

And how would Peter know what Derek told Stiles? He wasn’t there in the elevator. How does he know that there is even anything for Derek to tell in the first place? Unless there is.

Because why would Derek tell Stiles something so crazy, so unbelievable in the first place? When he easily could have told Stiles that he had imagined this whole thing. It makes no sense that the first place Derek would go would lead to werewolves and not something that’s less preposterous.

“Well,” Peter says, when the silence has gone on too long. “Not everything, that would take days, but he surely gave you the Cliffs Notes.”

Once again Stiles’ eyes flick to Erica standing in the doorway.

His chest feels very tight once again. “It’s impossible.”

“Three hundred years ago doctors believed that the body is governed by humors.” Peter says, lacing his fingers together. “What we know about the body and its chemistry would seem impossible to them. They wouldn’t even be able to understand the complexities that he can gleam from a simple blood test. It’s not impossible. It’s just something you never thought was possible.”

It’s a far too rational argument for something that is absolutely bananas.

“Been practicing that in the mirror?” Erica asks from the door, smirking. Peter shoots her a fond but admonishing look.

“I think you should show him something, prove that Derek isn’t the most creative liar in the tri-state area.” Peter says lightly, as though they’re discussing talents and not lycanthropy.

Erica sighs, holding up a hand. Stiles watches, as impossibly, her nails grow before his very eyes into pointed and terrifying looking claws.

“Not impossible.” Stiles says, blinking rapidly and leaning back against his chair.

“Not impossible.” Peter echoes, his eyes flashing a bright, icy blue at Stiles. He jumps in his chair, heart pounding in his ears. “Just highly unlikely.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, his mind a rush of thoughts. He remembers how quickly Derek’s nose had stopped bleeding after Stiles’ embarrassing dirty talk turned sleep punching incident. He’d heard the stories of course, of how Derek was the intern in his class who had been the last to drop. He had been a champion through 10 hour procedures.

Or course, he had help from the moon or whatever.

“Your whole family.” Stiles prompts. “All the Hales.”

“Most of us.” Peter answers, nodding towards Erica, “Plus a few strays.”

Erica rolls her eyes.

“That’s not what really matters right now.” Peter says, “You’ve got a combination of my genetics and god given talent to thank for saving your dad’s life. Though, I’ve got to hand it him, the guy’s a fighter.”

Stiles seriously fights the urge to roll his eyes at Peter’s boasting. “Yeah, I suppose Parrish and Lydia were just their wringing their hands and staring at their feet the whole time.”

A smirk curls up one side of Peter’s face. “I see it now.”

Stiles doesn’t bother asking what it is that Peter is seeing in him. He has a feeling that he wants to get to know Peter as little as possible as a person, er, werewolf. The guy’s talented, but he’s seriously a dickhead.

“Is he, uh, stable?” Stiles asks, squeezing his dad’s hand.

“Safe as houses.” Peter says, “I’m staying with him through the night, gonna make sure none of your nurses undo my work.”

A serious dickhead. Melissa’s seriously going to have her hands full.

“I think I should probably go home then.” Stiles finds himself saying, when the last thing he really wants is to leave the hospital right now. Well, it’s not the last thing he wants. There’s a competing want right now. And it’s hopefully somewhere out in Beacon Hills, willing to talk to Stiles and not hate him for walking away.

Peter’s eyebrows draw up a fraction. “Try Cora’s. I’ll call if anything happens.”

Stiles nods. He kisses his dad on the forehead, bumps his shoulder against Erica’s.

He pulls open the door once Erica steps aside, heading down the hall until a thought breaks through his mind.

Stiles backtracks so quickly that his sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor.

“Boyd and Isaac are in your little club too, aren’t they?” Stiles asks. Erica snorts, nodding. “I knew Isaac was way too perfect looking all the time. Dude might be a model but someone should tell him to cool it on the glowing skin thing before he gets mistaken for a vampire. Wait, are there vampires too?”

“Get out of here, Stilinski.” Erica yells at him.

And Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See. I'm not so horrible.
> 
> I love comments and Kudos!!!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

The thing about tequila is that while it can’t fill a hole in your heart, it’s gonna be your best friend and get you through it in the end. Derek ponders this as he stumbles his way out the door to Cora’s and onto the sidewalk.

“I’m coming to check on you after last call, asshole!” Cora calls after him.

“M’kay!” Derek bellows back at her, startling a man walking his dog. And yes, it’s only eight o’clock at night and Derek is hammered. Whatever. It’s nobody’s business. Everyone needs to calm down. Especially that guy and his dog. They could both use a drink. And also some nachos.

Derek doesn’t have his wallet on him, which is probably a good thing, because he nearly stops at every restaurant on his way down the block for a snack. That’s another thing he forgot about drinking, it goes so well with carbs.

Derek snorts to himself, passing a few outdoor tables at a café. Two women having drinks look concerned. He tells them they should be eating nachos.

They have the decency to at least laugh.

\-----------

Stiles doesn’t know where to begin. He has a series of problems to solve and a pretty short window of opportunity before enough time passes that Derek’s probably never going to speak to him again.

Step 1: Come to terms with the fact that Derek is a werewolf.

Step 2: Find Derek.

Step 3: Apologize for probably appearing like a dick and totally unaccepting of Derek’s biology and cultural upbringing.

Step 4: Beg for Derek’s forgiveness.

Step 5: Get Derek to admit that he’s at fault here too. Stiles warned Derek about the birthmark he has shaped like Texas. Derek probably should have warned Stiles about his whole wolfiness or whatever.

Step 6: Find out if vampires, witches, pixies, zombies, etc exist. If Zombies exist, begin fortifications for the apartment.

Step 7: Come to terms with the fact that maybe this whole thing was a hallucination brought on by only getting an average of 4 hours of sleep every night.

Step 8: Get more sleep.

Step 9: Find a calendar and try to figure out if Derek is particularly more moody around the full moon.

Step 10: If so, begin fortifications at Derek’s apartment.

Stiles is walking to Derek’s apartment building pretty much on autopilot by now. He pauses to look over his shoulder. It’s already dark out and while the hospital is pretty well lit in most areas, there’s a grassy patch where all the smokers like to sneak off to on their breaks. A shadow passes through that part of the hospital grounds.

His heart pounds in his chest all of a sudden as he pauses in the crosswalk. He might not have whatever wolfy super-senses that Derek has, but he would recognize that surprisingly squishy butt anywhere. And right now it’s ambling towards the hospital, swaying from side to side.

Stiles pivots in the middle of the crosswalk and turns to double back towards the hospital.

“Hey you!” Stiles yells, a man walking his dog stops and looks up from his phone. “Not you, I don’t even know you!” Stiles calls, picking up the pace. Derek’s gotta be in his own world right now or he’s seriously ignoring Stiles, because he keeps walking. And now Stiles is a weird mix of confused and annoyed.

Because all he wants to do is follow the ten part plan he has in place, but Derek won’t stop walking.

It’s a combination of nerves and being graceless that sends Stiles pretty much running full tilt at Derek, unable to stop when his shoes slip in the grass. He compensates for throwing both of his arms around Derek’s middle, hoping that the counterweight will stop him from full on face planting.

Only as usual, the total opposite happens. Derek falls to the ground with a dull thud and an involuntary “Oughhf!” sound that Stiles will never be able to think back on with a straight face. Stiles, having effectively tackled Derek, land sprawled across the other man’s back.

He expects fury when Derek realizes who it is that’s laying on him. The return of the guy who answered Derek’s confession with the silent treatment. Or maybe Derek will simply look over his shoulder, see Stiles’ face and give him the same glare Stiles received on the first day of his internship.

Instead, Derek lets out this weird hybrid giggle-snort and rolls onto his back. The movement sends Stiles sliding off of Derek and into the grass, landing gently. When Derek looks over, his whole face splits into a huge grin, laugh lines sprawling from the corners of his eyes.

Holy shit. Is Derek stoned?

Stiles doesn’t get to ask that question, or one of the many others outlined in his 10 part plan.

“Stiles!” Derek says, far too loudly considering how close they are, laying on the grass. “I was coming to find you! Going to tell you other stuff I going to tell you before I told you what I told you.”

And that is a sentence that will take Stiles ten years to unravel.

Stiles is going to need to reevaluate the plan to include pizza for Derek and a drink for himself.

“Hey,” Stiles interrupts. “I have stuff too. Stuff we’re probably going to have to talk about when you’re not so hammered. What is that tequila?”

Derek nods solemnly. “Two.” He answers.

“Shots?” Stiles asks skeptically.

“Bottles.” Derek answers.

“Alrightly then.” Stiles answers. Derek picks up Stiles’ hands and starts playing with it, bending his fingers one at a time. “That explains all the straightforwardness and the talking.”

“I talk.” Derek answers, curling Stiles’ hand into a peace sign and holding it up. “You’re the one who doesn’t talk. Well, you talk all the time. But not about things that I want you to talk about, stuff you don’t want to talk about.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles grumbles. And it’s true. Stiles spent pretty much 80% of their relationship trying to deny any romantic attachment, trying to be Switzerland. Trying to seem like he didn’t care so that he wouldn’t get hurt. Trying not to be the thing that hampered his or Derek’s career. “I’m working on that.”

Derek seems pretty content to just hold Stiles’ hand in his own and look up at he sky.

“So you’re hammered right now?” Stiles asks conversationally.

Derek shrugs.

“Okay, good talk.” Stiles sighs. They should get off the ground, there’s dampness soaking into the seat of Stiles’ pants from the grass and this is the second time today one of them had been knocked to the ground by the other. “I should take you home so you can get some sleep.”

Derek grumbles like a petulant child. “Peter’s gonna wanna sleep all day tomorrow. It’s his loft.”

“And here you made such a big deal about all your fancy Etsy home goods only to tell me that you live in our uncle’s place.” Stiles says, pushing himself up to sitting.

“I’m a long term house sitter.” Derek sighs, following Stiles up off the ground, with a lot less grace than Stiles is used to seeing from him.

“And here I thought you were this stable guy.” Stiles jokes. It feels like the tension inside him is breaking away bit by bit. He can take full breaths without a hitch in the intake.

“I have a place of m’own.” Derek says, “Not as big as the loft. Has a great view though.”

Stiles finds himself smiling, “Alright buddy. How about I take you to my place and then we’ll get you some mac and cheese, then you can sleep it off.”

“Nope.” Derek says, taking Stiles by the wrist. “Get your car. Gonna show you my place.”

Stiles sighs and lets Derek drag him down the street and to Stiles’ apartment building so they can pick up his keys. “Should probably bring a pillow too.” Derek says, standing via the help of the doorway he’s leaning against.

Derek directs Stiles to the logging road that leads into the preserve that surrounds Beacon Hills. This might be where Stiles gets murdered. But Derek seems to know where he’s going. They follow the single lane, gravel road for at least two miles until it turns into a wide, paved driveway that meanders its way up a large, sloping hill. Out this far past city limits, there’s hardly any light pollution. The stars shine brighter out here than Stiles has ever seen before.

They come to an abrupt stop at the end of the driveway, where a gigantic, modern home sits at the top of the hill. There isn’t a single light on in the house. Each of the walls is predominantly made of glass, during the day it must look like living inside a snow globe.

Stiles half expects Derek to lead Stiles into the house once they leave the car parked in the massive driveway.

“I thought you said this place was smaller than the loft.” Stiles says, following Derek.

“That’s my mom and dad’s place.” Derek explains, once again taking Stiles by the hand as he leads him away from the house and into the forest. And it’s a good thing that Derek holds onto Stiles, because there is no way that Stiles would be able to make it through the thickly forested area to find any path at all. In for a penny, in for a pound, Derek must be using his wolf powers to see where they’re going. “It’s not too much further.”

They reach the break in the tree line and Stiles flat out stops in his tracks. It’s a beautiful clearing, huge. The trees make a semicircle around the Victorian house silhouetted against the moon’s white light. Behind the house, the city stretches out in a grid of tiny white lights and fog stretching out around the edges.

“Once again, I thought you said it was smaller than the loft.” Stiles jokes as Derek pulls him towards the house, but now that Stiles can see it straight on, he realizes that half of the house if a ruin of burned wood and broken windows. It looks like a vicious fire tore the place apart. Is this what Derek was talking about?

“S’ the old house. Would have taken you up this way, but there’s a tree down up the road.” Derek responds, still stumbling a bit. If things go well when Derek’s sobered up and they’ve had a chance to actually take about things, Stiles is gonna have to have to get drunk with him at one point. Drunk Derek is a spectacle unlike anything Stiles has ever seen.

Derek finally leads Stiles around the corner of the house where a aluminum Airstream trailer complete with a small porch and an overhang.

“A trailer.” Stiles says. “This is your place? You live in a trailer?”

“Mostly on the weekends when I don’t have work.” Derek says, pulling the door to the trailer open. It’s not even locked. Stiles half expects a grizzly bear to come charging out and kill them both. But instead Derek just turns on the lights. “Or when Peter comes into town and brings people home.”

Stiles frowns in full support of not having to hear your uncle get it on.

Inside, it’s pretty cozy. The small kitchenette has a table and bench seating where comfy looking pillows are piled up. Stiles peaks around Derek to the surprisingly large bed that takes up 50% of the place at the back of the trailer. And now Stiles understands why he had to bring his own pillow. Derek only has one and its in the middle of the large bed. Its kind of sad knowing that Derek had pretty much no intention of anyone else being up here and in need of a pillow.

Stiles makes use of that pillow he brought pretty quickly. The stress of the day catches up on him about as soon as he sprawls out on the bed, still fully clothed. Drunk Derek also seems pretty content to sleep, curled up on Stiles’ chest and asleep in seconds.

In the morning, Stiles doesn’t have any missed calls, only a text from an unknown number that his dad had no complications overnight, he’s being sedated to keep him asleep, and they’ll be taking him to general recovery that afternoon. Derek’s passed out in the bed next to him, on his stomach with his head resting on his arms. Stiles has stolen his pillow in the middle of the night, hugging it to his chest.

When he steps outside and into the cool morning air, the sky is still pink from the sunrise and the world is a calm, soothing silence on all sides. He stares out on the town, laid out in a new perspective.

“Sailor Moon! You’ve gotta come see this!” Stiles yells in the general direction of the trailer. Now that he knows how sensitive Derek’s hearing is, they’re going to have to have a talk about Derek always pretending to have not heard Stiles’ awesome suggestions during rounds.

There’s a muffled growling sound that comes from the trailer.

Stiles is about to learn if Werewolves can get hangovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments give me lifeeee!
> 
> Also, be sure to check out my new series, where we'll see the Grey's AU from the beginning!

**Author's Note:**

> I love kudos and comments make me extra happy!


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